Simply Being
by Glum n Dumb Skittery
Summary: [rated for slight language, slash, one unsettling situation; on the safe side] "Surely you've seen the way he looks at you. Like you've hung the moon." "Much of what the church calls sin is simply being human."


**A/N:** If it is inaccurate, please don't shoot me. This was my vent after three hours of attempting a character sketch on Matthias Berger. The poor boy. Any dialogue from the book belongs to the literary artiste that is Ursula Hegi. All standard disclaimers apply. Enjoy!

_"Some day," Max said, "if you feel ready to tell me, will you let me know why you cried? Even if I don't know the words to ask?" -_Stones from the River by Ursula Hegi

**Simply Being**

He had joined the seminary. Packed up what little belongings he had, thrown on his old, worn-in winter coat, and gotten into the long, awkward, black car, with the priest waving good-bye, sending his blessings with the young lad. And the holy man ignored me as I was held back, restrained by an unnecessary amount of townsmen on the steps of the run-down church, yelling unintelligibly in my attempt to break away, confusion and frustration seizing all logic.

God turned his back on me that day.

There was nothing to comfort me, as that rickety automobile became a mere black dot in the distance, an ink blot against the harsh brick walls and smog of the city. He was fleeing to the country, to a life of the devoted and pure. There was no comfort in the back of a person's head. Not when the unseen face — dark eyes, porcelain skin, a wide, kind smile— belonged to the person you love. The person you wanted to look back and reassure you, if even falsely and for but a moment, that things may yet turn out for the better.

Father Georg walked slowly back up the curb, ascending the stone steps of the church, coming to a stop before me. "My son," he stated gravely. "Will I be seeing you at confession?"

A searing burst of hatred, a burning passion for resentment, welled within my chest and I fought all the harder against the limbs that bound me. "Why'd you do it?" was all I could cry. "Father, please! Bring him back!"

But Father Georg did no such thing, instead motioning to the men to let him through. The amoeba of cotton-clothed limbs moved as one, side-stepping one moment, and thrusting me to the cobblestone streets the next.

"And stay out."

A glob of tobacco-stained saliva landed next to my throbbing hand, pebbles embedded freely in the pale, dirty skin.

Leo Hesping, (or "Skittery" from our childhood antics), had been torn from me. And I had no idea _why_.

I pushed myself back up, getting to my feet and whirling back around, intent on charging back into the church, ready to insist they bring my best friend back. But the sight that met me put a damper on any such intentions.

"Emil."

Sister Mathilde stood in the doorway, hands clasped before her, a single rosary tangled and dangling between her long, ivory fingers. Her habit exposed her forehead, usually smooth and shiny, but currently furrowed and fraught with wrinkles. She gave me a long, hard look from behind her the thick lenses of her bifocals, her thin lips pursed solemnly, before sighing. "Come on," she murmured softly. "Get in before we make more of a scene than you already have."

I felt my face fall with relief as I scrambled up those unforgiving, cold, stone steps and into the equally merciless stone walls of the church. "God bless you, Sister Mathilde."

Soon enough, I found myself seated across from the nun, my head a bit clearer and producing enough rationality for me to utter more than just how unfair this current situation was.

"But, Sister, he was my _best friend_."

"I know that, Emil. But entering the seminary was his choice, I assure you."

"_Why_? He never said anything when I talked to him. How long have you known?"

"Emil."

"Sister Mathilde, he wouldn't go without telling me unless something was wrong. There _had_ to be something wrong!"

The nun's eyelids fell shut and she removed her glasses momentarily, gently massaging the bridge of her nose. As she replaced her handicap, she folded her hands atop her lap, knuckles forming an arched ivory steeple. "Emil, I know this must be hard on you. But, honestly, we've all noticed."

"What?" I leaned forward, dread welling in the pit of my stomach. Was he sick? Or dying? That must be it. That's what he was sent away. It must have been.

It was the only logical reason.

Her features softened, as though she couldn't believe I was forcing her to say this, like she was trapped and forfeiting information to the enemy. "Surely you've seen the way he looks at you."

Maybe he _had_ wanted to tell me then. Given me some reason for suddenly plunging himself into priesthood, for leaving without as much as a farewell.

Had I missed something here?

"What do you mean, Sister?" I asked tiredly, shoulder sinking, limbs tightening as we sat across from each other in the large hall, designed for visiting guests of the church's Holy brothers and sisters.

Sister Mathilde exhaled sharply, as though in disbelief. She leaned forward ever so slightly. I frowned expectantly. She said the words so softly, I hardly believed the whispered words that erratically pierced the empty hall.

"Like you've hung the moon."

The uncomfortable wooden bench beneath me seemed to fall away then. "…_what_?"

"Emil, he joined the seminary because… because he loved as he should not." Sister Mathilde shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and she avoided my questioning eyes determinedly.

"It's a sin to lie, Sister."

"Respecting your elders wouldn't hurt to be added to your virtues, either, young Emil."

Sister Mathilde had been my mother's best friend growing up, and was the adult I trusted the most. I was devoted to her. She was my mentor. But this… this couldn't be true.

"We were best friends, of course we loved each other," I managed adamantly, continuing my delusion.

"Emil."

"Sister Mathilde?"

"Do not delude yourself."

"I'm not."

"Then you must accept Leo's departure as a blessing."

For a while, I did accept it. I grew accustomed to the fact that my best friend would rather be in a world of devout strangers, (who admonished even something as simple as _doubting_ as a sin), rather than me, the fatherless teen in constant question of our religion, the very foundation of our upbringing. For a while, I forced myself to get up every morning and do the things I always did, reminded myself to keep breathing, and tried to pretend that Leo had never been my best friend. My only friend.

But it got harder.

By the sixth month, I was going to church every single day. Father Georg watched me with growing suspicion, Sister Mathilde with quiet sympathy and compassion. My mother couldn't have been more delighted. But I was dying inside.

"So tell me, Emil," Sister Mathilde began, as we sat across from each other once again; our meetings had become daily as well. "Have you finally seen the light?"

"Sarcasm is unbecoming to the likes of a nun, Sister."

"Emil."

Somehow that was always all it took. My name uttered sharply, falling past those dry, thin lips of the woman I believed, deep down, was connected directly to some higher being.

"Sister, I miss him. Do you know how hard it is to lose your one and only friend?" She looked taken aback for a moment, but I quickly caught on. "My own age, Sister Mathilde. Who actually leaves the church." The one place I felt the most emotionless with, for apparently no reason at all.

She sighed heavily, something she had become prone to doing these last few weeks. After a long, awkward, and contemplative silence, she licked her lips. "Emil, I know you miss Leo." She hesitated then, lips parting slightly, words poised but not ready to be launched. Sister Mathilde met my eyes, expression denoting how entirely serious she was at that very moment. "I miss him too, Emil."

My mind reeled and I clutched the wooden bench in an effort to recollect my thoughts, small splinters breaking off against the calloused skin of my palms. "But he— you said— "

"I have never, nor will I ever, say anything denouncing the soul of Leo Hesping, Emil. He is a … sweet boy. I think he's just confused." She paused. "He's coming home for a visit."

"…when?"

"Two weeks from now. He didn't say why, but— "

"You've been in contact with him." An accusation, not a question — no, a _statement_.

Sister Mathilde's eyes narrowed. "Father Georg has been writing weekly."

Indeed he had. But at that point, I was in a state of shock, and found I could no longer concentrate on no one thing. I spent the next few minutes fidgeting, sputtering, spouting half-sentences and incoherent sentences, while Sister Mathilde waited patiently for me to gather up my senses.

"But he'll be different," I finally gasped, thinking of the Leo I knew, and trying hard not to imagine the Leo that would return.

Sister Mathilde reached across the table and laid a warm, strong hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We shall know when he does return. Now go, your mother must be out of her mind with worry."

Of course she was wrong, my mother knew I was with the nun and, therefore, greeted me as though it were an everyday occurrence, (which it was.) But what Sister Mathilde could not have possibly warned me of, was how drastically different the Leo that had returned was from the Leo of over half a year ago.

"Emil, Sister Mathilde, it's good to see you again."

No. This wasn't Leo. This wasn't my best friend. The Leo I knew would have thrown his arms around us, not offer a hand to be shook, like mere acquaintances. The Leo I knew would have called me "Snitch" out of spite, and then "Emil", as he knew he should. He wouldn't have had sunken cheeks or bags under dull, dead eyes, or clothes that swallowed him whole. Leo Hesping would not stand there awkwardly, clutching a rosary that fell near his ankles, and stay silent as stone.

This was _not_ Leo.

And yet no one seemed to think this but me. Sister Mathilde caressed his face in her hands, welcoming him home, blessing him. Father Georg shook his hand respectfully. His father, too, repeated this action. His mother and he awkwardly hugged, and his younger siblings lingered around the woman's skirts, shy and wary of this boy who looked like them, this boy they had once known and loved, but now could only respect.

All I could do was stare at him, watching the others greet him, and trying to believe it was all some sick act.

He stared right back.

Sister Mathilde's words from the day he'd left came flying out of the depths of the abyss: "_Surely you've seen the way he looks at you? …Like you've hung the moon_."

I don't think she could have been more wrong at that moment than about anything else.

Somehow we ended up back at the visitor's center of the church, Sister Mathilde present for our conversation for at least a little while.

"So, what brings you back here, Mr. Hesping?" Sister Mathilde queried, trying to break the awkward silence between the three of us. I stared resolutely at the cracked stone floor.

Just as he opened his mouth to answer, I summoned the bitterness and confusion that had grown over the months. "Leo, why did you _go_?"

Sister Mathilde gave me a sharp glance. "Emil," she warned lowly.

But I'd already torn my eyes from the gray, ersatz tiles, and focused them now on this boy who called himself my best friend. "Or do you have a reason at all?"

"Emil."

"Sister Mathilde."

And for the first time since we'd entered the church, Leo spoke. It wasn't the quiet, almost monotonous speech he'd used upon arrival. This was a voice I could recognize: strong and lilting. It was Leo.

"Sister Mathilde," he said. "Could I… maybe have a moment alone with Emil?"

She regarded him with worry, not contempt. "Do you think it… _necessary_, Leo?" Quite obviously she fought to choose her words cautiously.

He didn't seem to think twice. "Yes."

"Don't take long. Father Georg expects you both for today's evening sermon."

They were having a sermon in honor of Leo Hesping's return later that night. I wondered if he would be speaking.

After Sister Mathilde had excused herself, Leo turned back to me, eyes darker than usual, almost dangerously bottomless, and it was hard to look into them without feeling like I was being drawn in, some odd gravitational pull that tugged an invisible string attached to my stomach. It made me start to wonder who really _had_ hung the moon in the first place.

"I had to leave," he explained, or at least tried to.

"If you had to leave, why didn't you tell me?" I countered, anger flaring, a re-lit flame from that day so many months ago.

"What did you want me to tell you, Emil?"

"I wanted you to explain to me what in God's name compelled you to do something so _stupid_."

"How is it stupid?"

"Because we both know this isn't what you wanted, no matter how devout you may claim to be. And don't change the subject. Why did you leave?"

His stare was unwavering. The waning sunlight that thinly filtered in cast shadows on his face, far too many, and it seemed as though his skin were stretched too tightly across too great an expanse. He looked, then, as old as I felt. Much too old.

There was a long span of silence that followed. Both of us too proud, too angry to back down; unwilling to understand each other, yet wanting to all the same. It was stubborn ignorance that held out, until…

"Emil?"

"Leo."

"What if… No. What do you do when you're called to the wrong thing?"

"What do you mean? You don't think you were called to the seminary or you were?"

"No, neither. Just… the wrong thing."

My front teeth grazed my lower lip and I bit down, unsure where this conversation was going and unaware when it had so sharply taken a turn into the unknown.

"In whose eyes is it wrong?" I finally uttered.

His eyes were bright when he managed to speak again. "In all."

I blinked. No. Sister Mathilde spoke no truth that day. No truth at all. Because Leo had changed, and he had come back and he had no reason. No reason at all.

"It must be awful," I offered, stepping on thin ice, "being called to something _one_ does not want."

"So what does _one_ do with that?" he responded, a lot more bitter than I had ever expected.

"I don't know," I admitted, feeling my heart break for his crestfallen look, his wide-eyed hope darkening once again. "I suppose one could… _learn_ to want what one is called for."

"And what if," he uttered hollowly, tearing his eyes from mine, "that calling is a sin?"

I covered my face with my hands. There it was again; it always came back to the church. Trying to fight back tears of frustration, I spoke through the stifling pressure of my hands pressed to my mouth, the words muffled, but still there. "Much of what the church calls sin, Leo, is simply _being human_."

My palms fell and the weak light hit my face once again, seeming much brighter than it really was. I tilted my head back and slowly exhaled. The silence was thick and all-consuming, but neither of us could find words after that. Not for a long while.

But, once again, Leo spoke. "Do you remember Klaus Malter?"

I felt the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Who couldn't?"

When Klaus was conceived, his mother believed she was giving birth to a girl. Imagine her disappointment when out popped, not the little Eva she was preparing for, but, instead, a beautiful, healthy baby boy. Mrs. Malter fell into denial. From the day he was born until he hit puberty, Klaus Malter was outfitted in dresses and smocks, and no one could persuade his mother out of it. If he attempted wearing riding boots or slacks, he would be kept inside and went without a meal or two.

Leo was not smiling. "And Robert? Robert Montag?"

I thought hard. "Red hair and freckles?"

"Yes. Kind of chubby, with that awful burn scar."

Robert Montag. The picture formed clearly in my head. He had been a pudgy child and a rather overweight teenager too, as I could recall. We had all been advised to steer clear from him, and the adults gossiped and whispered constantly, clearly under the impression that children would never think of eavesdropping. Robert Montag was one of those "boys who liked boys", or so the rumor went.

"What about them?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I wonder why we were so mean to them."

"What do you mean?"

"You are right, you know. Some things you just cannot change in a person. No matter how much you may want to. Not with Klaus and his mother, or with Robert. Mrs. Malter couldn't come to terms with her son, too certain she was destined to have a daughter, and so made do with what she had. Robert… maybe the rumors weren't true. What if they weren't? Then, I wonder, if those rumors weren't true… what have we _done_? No one, _no one_ deserves any of that, Emil. No one."

His eyes were glassy, sunlight bouncing off the liquid pooling in his passion. And then he looked up. At me.

That piercing gaze confused me. All the anger I felt for him, the raging frustration, the confusion, and the utter, utter disappointment… I realized then, none of it was focused on him. I missed my best friend. And the way he looked at me, it was like…

It was like…

Like…

_"Like you've hung the moon." _

We stayed like that, eyes locked and thoughts silent, a contenting wave of disturbing calmness taking over, for what seemed like years. And in that moment, I had my best friend back. There he was, sitting right across from me, staring at me with feelings I may never discover. With friendship and love, and maybe love he wished he never felt. And it didn't matter.

Because I ask you: what if I was wrong? What if he was wrong? What if Sister Mathilde and Father Georg thought wrong?

But even more so, what if we were all right? Would we really condemn such a devout young man for… simply being human?

"I go back tomorrow morning."

"Is it that _good_ there?"

He gave me a wry smile. "No."

My stomach lurched unpleasantly. Immediately, I _knew_. "Leo, what did they do to you?"

I could tell he was not willing to give up such information, but I made sure my stare was relentless, my focus unwavering.

Finally, he gave in. "It's so ugly."

And it was.

Several other seminarians had done things barely conceivable: cornering Leo as he went for a walk, whacking him around and then tying his arms behind his back. They poured _castor oil_ down his throat and pulled his pants down. They hunted him through the words, prodding him with sticks, and whispered filthy names. "Queer, filthy queer," they'd hissed. I shouldn't have to repeat what the castor oil forced his body to react with. He had suffered far too much humiliation.

"You know what I kept thinking while they were chasing me?" he asked softly, tonelessly. "That I deserved it. Even though I hadn't touched, hadn't _looked at_, a single one of them."

The strange thing was that I was the one crying then. I was the one with angry tears streaming down my face. The weight of the world seemed to be pressing down on me and I wanted to hurt those boys more than anything in the world. "No one deserves that," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Those _bastards_."

Leo offered me a watery smile. "Don't say that. Mussolini's Fascists pulled the same stunt. At least I know the boys that did it to me can't think of horrible things on their own."

"That's no reason to go back, Leo."

Leo's smile wavered, and fought a losing battle to keep it on his face. His brow furrowed, his lips twitched, and then his face finally crumpled. He broke. "I know," he whispered, hot tears threatening to spill over. He quickly scrubbed at his eyes before the rivers could form.

I did the only thing I could think to do. I crossed the distance between the two benches and pulled him into a hug. And he clung to me as though I were going to take him to the moon and back.

But we both knew I just couldn't.

I couldn't.

The next morning, just barely after the sun's first rays had breached the horizon, Leo Hesping was getting back into that horrible black automobile. He'd given a short sermon the previous night, but I had not been there to hear it. It was the way he should have been.

But I was there for his departure. And this time I was sure to get a proper good-bye.

No one else had come. I don't think anyone else had known he would be leaving so soon.

"You shouldn't be going back," I protested for what had to be the thousandth time.

"But I am," he replied steadily, also for the thousandth time.

"Did you even report those boys?" I cried. "It's _not safe_."

He loaded his suitcase into the trunk and closed it with a loud _clank!_ before turning to me. He grasped my shoulders beneath his strong hands, meant for pens and pencils gliding over endless sheets of notebook paper, not clutching the Bible and groping through forests while being persecuted.

"It's not safe," I tried again, this time the words coming only in a whisper. "Why are you going back?"

He smiled. "What a return trip. The first words out of your mouth are 'Why did you go?' and now it's 'Why are you going back'?" But when I did not make motion to respond to his words, he sighed, smile falling. "Emil, the temptation is stronger if I stay on the outside, don't you see?"

"But it's not safe!"

"Maybe not for my body," he said firmly. "But at least for my soul."

I clung to him tightly, apparently catching him off guard as the words left his lips. "You're my best friend," I whispered, my last reserve, and also my weakest.

He patted my back gently. "I know." Pulling away slowly, he smiled down at me. "Someday, far in the future, I want you to ask me something."

The now-familiar twist of dread tugged at my empty stomach. "You're not coming back are you?" But he ignored my query.

"I want you to ask me what you did when I first got here. I want you to ask me why I went, why I left without saying goodbye. All the questions I know you want to. Even if I seem like I don't' want to answer another question in the world… _ask_."

"Why?"

"Because, then, I won't care about what is sin and what is 'simply being human'. I'll be ready to answer, then."

"How will I know when to ask, Leo?"

He stepped into the back seat of the car, ducking his head as he sank into the seat cushion. The driver started the engine. "I don't know, Emil," he admitted, closing the door. Then he smiled up at me. "I suppose," he said brightly, "one could _learn_ to know when the right time to ask is."

"I'll miss you, Leo. You're my best friend, you know?"

Somewhere in his dark eyes, I saw a flicker of something pass through, and had I blinked I would have missed it. But it was gone before I could write it off as a trick of the light, before I could decipher it for what it was.

He nodded. "I know. Good bye, Emil."

And then it was my turn, as that heinous black car pulled away out of the city, towards the seminary of bastard boys, to watch my best friend with longing.

Somewhere deep down, I had a feeling that he was on a journey to somewhere else. Somewhere where he could hang the moon in the sky. For me.

And just maybe he was halfway there.

Maybe I was starting to understand what it meant to start simply being human.

I finally understood the movement of a hand waving good-bye.

_"Trudi gave Robert her white lamb and an egg-shaped rock she'd found in the brook. For days after their departure, she kept looking for Robert, expecting to hear his quiet laugh. She'd never known what it was like to have a friend. To be alone again felt as though part of her had vanished along with him. It was different than with grown-ups leaving. You knew they were not like you." -_Stones from the River by Ursula Hegi

**A/N: **I actually like how this came out, for the most part. Credit to Stacy for the enlightening thoughts, and Ursula Hegi's Matthias which somehow combined and formed this. Thanks for reading and review, please!


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